Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(8)
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out as I walk inside.
“We’re in here!” answers a faint voice from the direction of the living room.
My townhouse is in the swanky part of Greenwich Village. I bought it two years ago and promptly tore out all the hideous purple carpeting the previous owner favored, along with the blood-red Victorian floral wallpaper that made my skin crawl. It was like living inside a rotten plum. Now the walls are painted delicate eggshell, the floors are glossy ebony hardwood, and the furniture… I’m still working on the furniture. In five stories with six bedrooms, the only places to sit are behind the desk in my office, on the sofa in the living room, on the floor, or on my bed.
I drop my bags near the stairs to the second level and make my way down the hall. When I get to the living room, I prop my hands on my hips and smile, amused by the scene.
Juanita, my fifteen-year-old neighbor, is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa with an open bag of Cheetos in her lap and a can of Red Bull in one hand. She’s in her school uniform of white shirt and plaid skirt, but her skinny legs are bare, as are her feet. Her wild mop of curly dark hair is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. The floor around her is littered with candy wrappers, empty soda cans, discarded bags of chips, and schoolbooks. She has her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her and is watching MMA wrestling, her favorite thing in the world.
Trying to sound stern, I say, “When someone tells you ‘make yourself at home’ while they’re gone, Nita, it’s a euphemism for be comfortable. Not move in and turn the place into Animal House.”
She doesn’t bother to acknowledge that or look over in my direction. “When are you gonna get a TV, man? What kind of weirdo doesn’t have a TV?”
“I’m not weird. I’m limited edition.”
“Tch.”
“I’d also like to point out that I’m the only person in this room not wearing a rat.”
Juanita’s pet rat, Elvis, is perched on her head. He’s white with big black patches, like a dairy cow. Juanita rescued him from a storm drain when he was a baby, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. He travels with her on her shoulder or in her backpack, to the dismay of her mother and teachers at school. When the principal said he’d suspend her if she didn’t stop bringing Elvis to class, Juanita threatened to call the civil rights division of the US Department of Justice and report that her rights were being violated under the Americans with Disabilities Act, because Elvis was a service animal like a seeing-eye dog. When asked what service he provided, Juanita replied with a straight face, “Emotional support.”
I love this kid.
She comes over every day after school to escape her six siblings, who all still live at home. She tells her mother I’m helping her with her calculus homework, but the reality is that Juanita could teach her AP calculus class herself.
“You say that like it’s a good thing,” says Juanita, reaching up to scratch Elvis on his belly. He shivers in delight, white whiskers trembling. “How’d the job go?”
“How do you think it went?”
Juanita snorts. “I think you shriveled another rich old white dude’s balls to the size of peas.”
“That I did. Another pea-sized pair of balls to add to my collection.” I sigh in satisfaction. I really do love my job. “I’m going to make a sandwich. You want one?”
Her attention still glued to the computer screen where two shirtless, barefoot guys are beating each other to within an inch of their lives, Juanita says, “Nah. I’m good.”
I eye all the junk food wrappers scattered around her. “It wouldn’t kill you to eat some real food once in a while, kiddo.”
Juanita makes a face. “Sure thing, Lourdes.”
Lourdes is her mother’s name. It’s what she calls me when I’m meddling.
She calls me Lourdes a lot.
“Suit yourself,” I say breezily, and leave Juanita and Elvis to enjoy their show.
In the kitchen, I kick off my shoes and open the fridge. Unlike the rest of my home, it’s packed. An empty refrigerator is one of the few things that frightens me.
“Roast beef, provolone, tomatoes, lettuce,” I say, gathering everything. “Hello, my beauties!”
I get the bread from the pantry, make myself a sandwich, and eat it standing up over the kitchen sink. Then I make another sandwich, tuck it inside a Ziploc bag, and slip it inside the backpack Juanita left on the console by the front door.
Then I go upstairs and unpack. When my things are put away, I pad down the hallway to my office, fire up my computer, and check my email.
Zip. Nada. Crickets.
And the old, familiar loneliness pops its head around my shoulder and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
This is the worst time, when I come home from a job and don’t have anything else lined up. When I’m working, my mind is occupied, and when my mind is occupied, I can go days or weeks without once wondering what the point of everything is. But when I’m not working…
“I’m betting you’d go out of your f*ckin’ mind if you didn’t have a puzzle to solve. Right?”
Jarhead and his annoyingly astute observations.
The thought of him is equivalent to a migraine. How can anyone stand to be around that cocky, irritating jerk? I know he runs a successful business, so he’s got employees, clients, vendors, people he has to interact with on a daily basis. He’s probably even got friends…girlfriends?